


After Adamant

by buttercup23



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 12:35:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10245818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercup23/pseuds/buttercup23
Summary: Dorian finds the Inquisitor alone with his thoughts.





	

“I see I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.”

Maxwell turns to Dorian, a faint look of surprise on his face, though Dorian is sure he wasn’t quiet as he stalked across the battlements. Maxwell’s raised eyebrows are lit by green light for a moment, until he closes his fist and plunges the two of them into near darkness, turning and resting an elbow on the stone wall. “I’m not eager to go back into the Fade.”

Dorian joins him by the wall, laughing softly. “Try being a mage.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them, worried that they are too flippant; too dismissive. The danger of the Fade was something Dorian should be well familiar with, but what Maxwell had had to do back at Adamant… that was unique.

He needn’t have worried, though. Maxwell’s lips quirk momentarily into a good-humored grin, before his expression grows more somber and he gazes out at the night sky. They stand there in silence for a few heartbeats while Dorian wrestled with whether or not he should say anything. It’s… not his business, certainly, but he can’t help worrying that if he doesn’t ask the question, no one else will.

“When’s the last time you slept?” he says quietly, almost casually, trying to keep his tone as far from mothering as possible. When Max gives only a shrug in response, confirming his fears, he doesn’t know what to say. Stymied, he falls silent, waiting for Max to go on.

 _No, not ‘Max,_ ’ he corrects himself, _the Herald. Or the Inquisitor_. _Or at the very least_ Maxwell, but even as he fights this easy familiarity he knows it’s a losing battle that he doesn’t really want to win anyway.

“Alistair was a good man,” Max says, and the train of Dorian’s thoughts bend in a different direction.

“He was,” he agrees in a low murmur, suddenly wishing he’d had the forethought to snatch a bottle of brandy from the kitchens before stalking the Inquisitor across the castle. Drinking feels appropriate at a moment like this.

“But Hawke… and Varric.” There’s a hitch in Max’s voice at the dwarf’s name.

Dorian holds his breath, wanting to say something, anything, that might be comforting, but he can’t fathom what that would be. “You did what you had to do,” is the best he can manage.

Maxwell lets out a noisy breath and rubs a hand over his face. It’s the hand with the mark, and it flashes green, illuminating the stubble that’s uncharacteristically sprouted over his jaw. “I just… why am I the one to make that call? Why should I be the one to decide?” He holds his hand out in front of him, and the green glow bathes them both in a ball of eerie light. “Because of this?”

His gaze leaves his hand to search Dorian’s face, and it makes something in his chest tighten to see the genuine question in Max’s grey-green eyes. 

“It’s because you’re up here, losing sleep over it,” Dorian says, sure of the words as soon as they leave his lips. “It’s because this decision haunts you that you’re the best person to make it.” He shakes his head, taken aback at the sudden warmth he feels spreading through his chest. “If you were a man for whom this didn’t matter… you couldn’t be the Inquisitor. Trust me. I come from a country filled with men for whom this would not matter. You are not like them and that is why you’re…well, _you_.”

The line of Max’s lip curves ever so slightly at the edges. “Kind of a rotten deal for me, though, isn’t it?”

There’s something knowing in the glint of Max’s eyes that leaves Dorian feeling exposed and oddly vulnerable, considering he’s not the one with insomnia.

“But it works well for the rest of us, so thanks,” Dorian quips and earns a wider smile. Ignoring the way _that_ fills his chest with warmth, he gestures toward the stairs. “How about we head to the kitchens and see if we can’t make up for what we lack in moral relativity with some good, well-preserved Antivan brandy?”

Max’s gaze drops for a moment, and just as Dorian’s sure he’s going to decline he looks up with that infernally cocky smile of his. “I think that sounds like a fine idea, Dorian.”

Dorian decides then that he’s rather alright with the whole first name basis thing, after all.


End file.
